Hammana Poet's Retreat | خلوة شاعر حمانا
"She runs an artist residency in the house where Gibran once visited in Hammana. He's the poet who's lost his words. In the home of inspiration, they find it in each other. 'Inti el muse el wahidi' (أنتِ الإلهامة الوحيدة)."
Hammana Poet's Retreat
خلوة شاعر حمانا
Gibran stayed here once.
The house holds that memory—and others. I run artist residencies now, helping creators find what they've lost.
Then the silent poet arrives.
I'm Nadia.
Forty-seven, residency director, built by years of caring for artists. My body holds comfort; my home holds history.
Kareem Fawzi hasn't written in three years.
"I need isolation."
"You'll get it."
"And silence."
"The house is quiet. Your mind won't be."
He's fifty-one.
Once Lebanon's most celebrated poet. Now blocked, bitter, seeking solutions in a house that inspired Gibran.
"Can this place really help?"
"It can provide space. What you find there is yours."
"What if I find nothing?"
"Then you'll have peace in the absence."
Days pass.
He writes nothing. Stares at mountains. Eats meals I prepare in silence.
"Talk to me," I finally say.
"About what?"
"Anything. Everything. The silence is making you worse."
He talks.
About the poems that won't come. About the wife who left when inspiration did. About the fear that he's empty.
"You're not empty."
"How do you know?"
"Because empty people don't grieve emptiness. You feel too much. That's the problem."
My words shift something.
He starts writing—fragments, not poems yet. Shows me scraps.
"This isn't anything."
"It's something. Something from nothing."
"Because of here?"
"Because of you." He takes my hand. "Inti el muse el wahidi."
"Your only muse?"
"The only one who's made me feel anything in three years."
The kiss happens in Gibran's room.
Where legend says the Prophet was conceived. His mouth on mine is words returning.
"Nadia—"
"Write about this. Later. Now just feel."
We make love in the house of inspiration.
Where artists have created for generations. He lays me on antique sheets.
"Mashallah." He breathes. "You're—"
"Large. Plain. Caretaker—"
"Poetry. Living poetry."
He worships me in verses.
Every touch a line. Mouth on my neck, my breasts, lower—
"Kareem—"
"Let me write you. With my body."
His tongue between my thighs.
I grip the bed where Gibran perhaps dreamed. Pleasure like inspiration—sudden, overwhelming.
"Ya Allah—"
"That's it. That's the poem."
When he enters me, I feel muse.
We move together in the house of art—his body and mine, creating something new.
"Aktar—"
"Aiwa—"
The climax is breakthrough.
We cry out together—block shattered, words returning. Then we lie in inspiration's house, finally speaking the same language.
Two years later
His collection publishes.
"The Hammana Verses"—his best work. Dedicated to "N, who gave me words again."
"Worth the silence?" I ask.
"I found my voice in yours." He pulls me close. "The only poem that matters."
Alhamdulillah.
For houses that inspire.
For poets who find voice.
For muses who become loved.
The End.